The Many Names of Sherlock Holmes
by TheOtherHalfBloodPrince
Summary: John Watson is not inexperienced when it comes to death. It has been with him nearly all of his life, but little did he know that one death would leave him broken beyond repair. (post-Reichenbach) (angst)


_Oh, God. No. No, God, please no. _This wasn't supposed to happen. It can't end like this. It just can't. The universe is nothing more than a capricious entity that doesn't give a damn about what it does to people's lives. John Watson takes off sprinting across the street, ignoring the steady flow of traffic.

Just mere meters away, his best friend is lying on the ground, surrounded by his own blood. John keeps running, pushing through the crowd that has accumulated on the sidewalk below St. Bart's.

The usual concrete of the pavement has been stained with blood, so much blood. _How can there be that much blood? _Nameless strangers hold John back as he attempts to force his way to Sherlock's side. John struggles against their grasp, but the weight of his emotions brings the doctor to his knees.

John Watson was never a very emotional man –at least, not openly. The tears that he shed were shed silently in isolation, where John was sure no one could see.

It is not long before the tears begin to well up in John's eyes, but the blogger does not stop them from rolling down his cheeks the moment his eyes fall upon the body of his friend. John's shaking fingers find Sherlock's wrist.

_Please, please don't be dead. C'mon, Sherlock, for me. I'm begging you; don't leave me here alone. _There is nothing, not even the faintest sign of a pulse –only Sherlock's cold skin beneath his hands.

It can't be over. John won't let it end this way. He has to save his detective –even if it is the last thing he ever did. Maybe Sherlock is still alive. Perhaps his pulse has just dropped so low it could not be detected. John begins to move his hand to Sherlock's neck, but he feels the crowd pulling him back.

The wail of sirens pierces the air as the ambulances draw closer, paramedics flooding the street. Again, John tries to fight off the mass of onlookers holding him back, but their grasp is just too strong.

"No, let me go. I have to save him," John says, though his voice is so weak it is not heard –or not acknowledged. Before John has the chance to break free, the medics surround Sherlock.

Little did John know, the last time he would see his best friend was when he was covered in his own blood and being hauled away to a hospital that couldn't save him.

John finds himself snapping back to reality. He is sitting in the grass, his hands brushing up against cool, smooth stone. He raises his eyes to the headstone, tracing the perfectly carved letters with his fingers.

In all his life, John Watson never though it was possible for someone to miss another so much. A day doesn't go by when the consulting detective does not cross his mind. Everything reminds John of Sherlock –he can't get away.

Each morning, John walks into the kitchen, fully expecting to find a severed body part in the fridge, but he never does. It's odd that something that John so loathed would be something that he would long to see just one more time.

John never knew what getting an uninterrupted night's sleep feels like. Ever since that day, he lays in the darkened bedroom, wishing for the music. John recalls how irritated he was to be woken at all hours of the night by the soothing ballad of the violin. The music died with Sherlock, and John still wishes he could hear the melodious notes floating through 221B just once more, no matter what time of day they graced the atmosphere with their song.

John still finds cigarettes hidden in miscellaneous places in the flat –Sherlock's secret stash that he rarely used, but found comfort in the fact that they would be there if he needed them. Every now and then, a box of nicotine patches would reveal themselves, reminding the doctor of the times Sherlock would sneak them out of hiding when he found himself wrapped up in a particularly difficult case –or no case at all, just boredom.

John can't escape the darkness that follows him with every step he takes. It won't leave him alone. There are still days when John can't stop the overwhelming grief that floods his being, leaving him with tears streaming down his face.

John discovers that he still clings onto the possibility that there was something bigger surrounding Sherlock's death, but he doesn't know how to even begin to deduce it. How ironic that Sherlock is absent for the one mystery that only he could solve.

Sherlock was an absolute genius, and John would be damned if anyone dared to tell him otherwise. He was not a fake, John is certain. No one can fake something that great.

John desperately wants to move on –after all, he was in the army. Death was not foreign to the doctor, but this one has taken hold of him, and it refuses to release the blogger from its grasp –no matter what John tries to do to rid himself of the pain.

And he has tried to get rid of the pain, too, but he's never been able to carry it out. At first, he couldn't get his hands to stop trembling as the cold metal was pressed against his head, but after a while, it became second nature. Yet, he can never seem to pull the trigger.

Right after everything was shot to Hell, John had people constantly stopping by, offering their condolences and sympathy, but John wanted nothing more than to be left alone. All he was able to think about when they arrived were the way they only seemed to see Sherlock as a "freak" or a "psychopath who we would find with a body at his feet one day". But John never said that to them –he was polite.

Sure, Sherlock was strange. Hell, he was probably the furthest from normal a person can get, but that has never mattered to John. He only saw the great that Sherlock did for other people. Sherlock was a bit out there, but he was so much more than that.

Sherlock Holmes has been known by many names. To some, he's a raving lunatic bound to end up locked in a padded room, but to others, he is the person who saved their lives. He is also an unsolvable enigma, brimming with intelligence and vigor. He is a genius who can solve any puzzle you put in front of him.

But above all, Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective, the only one the world may ever know.


End file.
